


The Ink of Revenge

by Lamplighter1890



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Victorian Literature - Fandom
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, F/M, Prostitution, vague sexual content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-18
Packaged: 2019-06-29 05:55:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 6,178
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15723336
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lamplighter1890/pseuds/Lamplighter1890
Summary: William Briggs is a reporter buried inside whiskey bottles who is hopeful of getting back to his former life and position as a front-page reporter.  He reads Dr. Watson's story "A Case of Identity" and sniffs what he believes to be a story in the awkward manner in which Holmes and Watson leave their client, Miss Mary Sutherland.  Briggs starts to investigate and uncovers a sympathetic victim who was treated cruelly by her family and Holmes and Watson as well?





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This short story is based on the real ACD canon tale: "A Case of Identity." There is no need to read the original ACD tale because the circumstances are summarized throughout my story. If you read or have read the ACD tale, (always good to read ANY of the canon- right!) then you might understand what motivated me to write my story.
> 
> This work was formerly titled "Heartbreak and Headlines" but I was not satisfied with the title.

London 1890

A man wearing a long black coat, frayed bowler, and shoulder satchel, stood just outside the revealing glow of the gas lamps at the corner of Soho Square and Carlisle Street. He was watching women walk around the square: women of monetary substance and woman who were scant, women wearing tawdry dresses or middle-class fashion, women who were well fed, and women who looked as if they were not acquainted with a meal.

There were many shapes, sizes, and ages, but amidst all this variety and difference, there was an overwhelming commonality, and that was their shared means of making money. The square was a school for sales, and the experienced had an advantage on the initiate, and the most attractive didn’t necessarily win the king’s coin. Ugly, plain or pretty, it was all sex.

Like the women he was watching, the streets were the world in which the man wearing the satchel lived, worked, and played. He tossed his cigarette as he finished watching the verbal exchanges between the women and their potential customers, the taunts, the enticements, and the skirt lifts. He momentarily thought about dropping a few pence for a quick encounter, but then decided that he was not really in the mood. He turned and walked away from the square, stepping around a girl getting a stand-up against the side of the building, and headed for a pub. He was annoyed and needed a few drinks to settle himself so that he could think less than clear.

The twin lanterns out front gave away The Sword and Sheath public house, although the man lying in the road and the two street girls outside the door were also adequate as signage. The man walked in and took up a familiar seat at the long end of the bar, taking off his bowler and satchel and dropping them onto the bar top.

“Evening Badger, what’ll you ‘ave?” said the matronly woman behind the bar.

The man, more commonly referred to as “Badger,” lit another cigarette, and exhaling a long breath of smoke replied “porter.”

The barmaid nodded and placed a pint glass underneath a tap and slowly pulled the long wooden handle. The glass slowly filled up with the dark brown liquid until it reached its zenith and was then carried over to the waiting man. Badger took a long slow drink, then set the glass down on the bar. He glanced around the bar looking for any regular customers he knew, and to identify anyone he didn’t.

The Sword and Sheath was a long, narrow, room, as it was created by dividing a large business in half. The sagging ceiling beams were over-taxed and the planks between them were bowed and stained by years of water leaks. The wooden ceiling and wall paneling had long ago given up their natural smell and were now imbued with the odors of smoke, sweat and beer. The small round tables and mismatched wooden chairs belied years of abuse, and the gas lamp driven illumination kept the room dim, the shadows permanent and the patrons comfortable in their anonymity.

Badger reached into his satchel and removed a notebook and pencil. He drew on his cigarette and started to write notes in the dog-eared, stained, pad. “Badger” was more properly known as William Briggs, a penny-a-line reporter for The Globe newspaper. He took on the name “Badger” as a reflection of his tenacity at digging in the dirt of London’s seedy streets. The story on who gave him this flashy moniker is unclear, as some say that Briggs anointed himself with the name.

One set of facts that were indisputable was why Briggs fell from grace as a paid column reporter for the Times, then The Standard, to a man who lived by writing obituaries and penny-a-line stories.

He raised his glass and took another long pull of porter as he finished scratching out a few sentences before he put his pencil down. Angie, the barkeep, left him alone, spending her time with a few regulars at the other end of the bar. Briggs had been a regular for so long that she could easily read his dispositions, and tonight he was in his angry, self-loathing, mood. She knew to leave him alone except to keep bringing him drinks, so she glanced at his glass from time to time and drew it full when required.

Briggs reached into his satchel, pulled out a small booklet and set it down on the bar in front of him. He maintained his smoking, one after another, and looked down at the booklet in front of him. The cover had an illustration of Sherlock Holmes and an unknown lady sitting across from one another in a parlor and above that was the title “A Case of Identity.” 

He took a drink from the fresh glass of beer, picked up the short story and looked at the cover intently.

“Written by Dr. John Watson,” he said to himself with a sneer.

“An amateur, a bloody amateur,” he thought to himself. A “coattail rider” was what he was, collecting his celebrity from Sherlock Holmes.

A man Briggs truly hated.

Here he was, a proven and gutsy reporter, a man who has written for two of the largest newspapers in London, who held down his own front page column! There was a time when he would only enter a pub like the Sword and Sheath to work on a story he was investigating; certainly never to actually drink and socialize! But this pub was now a reflection of who he was: dirty, falling apart and full of sub-standard alcohol.

He used to walk into pubs and restaurants and drink for free, obtain tables without reserve, and request meetings with the leading politicians and persons of stature in London. But those were the summers of yesterday, and now his life was a cold, gray winter, only to be followed by another winter. Never a spring. He glanced at the whore plying her trade with the teamster in the corner. He emptied his glass and looked down at the pamphlet: then he raised his hand for another.

The reporter staggered home, across the square, then Charing Cross, towards St. Giles. He had fallen far but was still floating above the bottom, because even though he lived in “Giles,” he didn’t reside in a rookery. His rented room, really just a small space, was upstairs in an attic of a tailor’s shop. Calling the proprietor a tailor was a stretch because although he could pull a needle and thread, he really just patched up and sold second-hand clothes. But it was quiet, as the tailor had no machinery, very few customers and lived all alone above his shop, right below the space leased by Briggs. The quiet room enabled Briggs to write, and the quiet was a detriment to his writing.

He was almost home when three young toughs stood in front of him, blocking his way, and demanded his purse. One of them flashed a small knife, and another held a club, or more commonly, a “cosh.”

“Give us your money G’randad,” said one of the boys.

“So my fine gentlemen, you want my purse do ya?” sneered the Badger.

“Well, here it is,” and with that, Briggs reached into his satchel and pulled out a large hunting knife that he brandished at the toughs. They took a step or two backward, then looking back to forth at one another, they turned and ran. When Briggs had pulled the knife, the booklet of the “A Case of Identity” came out of the bag and fell onto the muddy cobbles.

The Badger replaced the knife but failed to notice the pamphlet on the ground. He spat at the fleeing toughs and continued his meandering walk home.

His brain was pickled, but anger kept the wheels and cogs turning. He had to get back… back on top. It angered him to no end that John Watson was a celebrated author. Well, celebrated by the masses at least, but if the great unwashed are willing to put out two pence, you can become a wealthy man indeed.

He placed his key into the lock of the tailor’s shop and stepped inside. He made for the stairs and then up three flights. There was no need to light a candle as he knew the way, and his room was empty except for his bed and a small desk and chair. He slung his satchel off then flopped down on the tick mattress. He lay awake for a time in the windowless dark, yet sleep and bad dreams eventually won out.


	2. Chapter 2

It was mid-morning, and Briggs managed to rouse himself from a fitful sleep. He splashed water from the basin on his face and grabbed an open whiskey bottle for a long pull of liquid. He grimaced as the cheap whiskey burned a path down his throat on the way to its final destination in his bloodstream.

He needed a story, he needed to come across something he could write about and then sell to one of the papers, something beyond society news or the police beat. He would never get outside the confines of his present situation unless he could re-capture stories that made headlines. He was too old and jaded to start over again on the bottom rung of the ladder, but he had angered too many men who were now in positions to make decisions. He needed to produce something undeniable, something that would push old scores aside in favor of increased sales and circulation.

He dressed, grabbed his satchel and walked out the door, down the stairs and out into the street. First, a cup of tea, then he would change his fishing charts because if he wanted better stories, he needed to start working in more productive waters.

He bought a copy of The Times and grabbed a cup of tea at the nearby street vendor. Scanning the paper, he noted the usual blasé headlines: Scotland Yard investigates Hartlington’s Brokerage House, a young man found dead at the waterfront near Albert bank, “IIex” ridden by Arthur Nightingall won the Grand National, an expansion of the Great Western Railway via the Cornwall line had been finalized…

Bored with the paper, he glanced over at the front page headlines of the other major London papers that lay in stacks about the ground in front of the newsstand, when his eye was caught by the rack of booklets, short tales, and magazines. There, next to some penny dreadfuls, were several of Dr. John Watson’s short stories about his adventures with Sherlock Holmes. He reflexively reached into his satchel for his copy of the Doctor’s latest effort, only to find that it was missing. He pulled his bag around in front and searched for the small booklet, just to confirm its disappearance.

“Do you want a Sherlock Holmes story mate?”

Briggs blinked into focus and realized that the newsstand clerk was speaking to him.

“Sorry - what did you say?”

“I asked if you wanted a Sherlock Holmes story, as your sittin’ there staring at them,” said the busy shopkeeper. He managed to make two sales and holler prices at bystanders all while talking with Briggs.

“No…no, not at all,” replied the Badger.

“Sure? you might want to read the latest as Holmes allows the cad to get away - not very common for him - that’ll be one guv,” as the shopkeep passed a paper on to another customer.

“Allows him to get away?” thought Briggs. What on earth would compel the detective to do such a thing?

The newsman in him suddenly required an answer: “alright, I’ll have the latest story.”

Mission in hand, he walked the few blocks up to Bloomsbury Square where he could sit outside on a bench and enjoy the air, sun, and parade of people while reading. He struck a Lucifer, lit a cigarette, and started to read the tale of “A Case of Identity.” He told himself to push through the poor writing and to examine the facts of the tale, and within those facts, find the “why and how” in Holmes’ motivation.

The young woman in the story, Miss Mary Sutherland, lived at home with her mother and step-father, Mr. James Windibank. Her father had been a successful plumber but had passed on several years prior and his widow eventually sold his business for a nice sum. Enter the new man in her life, Mr. Windibank, who married the well-off widow.

Mary Sutherland had an inheritance of approximately 100 pounds annum from an uncle in New Zealand and supplemented it by working as a typist. She gave her mother and Windibank money as compensation for her living at home. Mr. Windibank did not want to lose this supplemental income, for it was more significant than the expense of her living at home, so he invented a scheme to break her heart and discourage her from future romance.

With the assistance of his wife, he decided to disguise himself and portray a prospective suitor to Miss Sutherland. The Gasfitters Union sent tickets to their yearly ball, out of respect for her departed father, to Miss Sutherland and her mother. This is where the young lady was to meet her step-father in disguise, masquerading as a Mr. Hosmer Angel. He made a favorable impression on the young woman and shortly after that they reached an understanding. A date for the wedding was set at St. Savior’s Church.

However, the scheme had gone too far, Mr. Windibank/Mr. Angel could not actually marry Miss Sutherland, so the cad left the young woman standing at the altar.

Shortly thereafter, she employed Mr. Holmes to find out what had happened to Mr. Angel. This of course was done, as Mr. Holmes quickly put the clues together and confronted Windibank, who he allowed to run off.

Mystery solved, Holmes decided not to tell his client the truth about Mr. Hosmer Angel’s identity but simply advised Miss Sutherland to forget about him and move on. He takes this action despite his knowledge that she had pledged to remain faithful to Angel for ten years! A promise extracted by Angel before his proposal knowing that she would stay true to her word.

The read was a fast one, and it didn’t cost Briggs more than a few cigarettes and his breakfast hour to finish the tale. It read as a fiction thought Briggs: perhaps Watson simply creates these stories?

Disgusted, Briggs got up and thought to head off to the pub and have a pint. As he walked across Southhampton Row towards his appointment with a glass of porter, he failed to notice the abrupt change in the environment. The serenity of the square and its green grass, lovely lines of trees, and the pastoral feeling was replaced ever so quickly by paved streets, tall sooty brick buildings, the crash and dash of people and coaches, and the omnipresent cacophony of the city.

“So it all ended with Holmes refusing to tell her the truth about her step-father,” said Briggs to nobody at all.

The Badger noted the road repair crew and walked around the men, equipment, and holes as they attempted to improve the condition of London’s streets. The clanging of their picks and heavy thud of their tamps snapped his concentration and increased his overall degree of annoyance.

Vexed about the story, he strode the several remaining blocks in a state of mind that gave no notice to time or distance. He called for a whiskey and a porter and sat at a table in the corner, immediately pulling a notebook from his satchel and scribbling out questions.

_Why did Holmes refuse to tell the women the truth?_

_She said that she promised to remain faithful to the fiancé for ten years…why leave her on the hook to a fictional lover?_

_Why allow the step-father to get away with it?_

_Why did Watson write the bloody story if it would reveal the identity of the wronged woman?_

 

He took out the story and flipped to the ending.

“What exactly did Holmes say to justify not telling his client the truth?” he thought.

“If I tell her she will not believe me. You may remember the old Persian saying, ‘There is danger for him who taketh the tiger cub, and danger also for whoso snatches a delusion from a woman.’”

“Why would she not believe him,” thought Briggs? Holmes could produce evidence that would show her something beyond his opinion.

Did Holmes think that Miss Sutherland was delusional? Or was it merely the influence of love on her disposition that made her delusional in his mind?

Suddenly, Briggs had another thought entirely.

Holmes is not married. There has never been gossip about him being linked to a woman romantically. There are statements in Watson’s previous stories that show Holmes did not think much of women; perhaps Holmes felt that she deserved it?

“Hmmm,” thought Briggs, “that would be interesting.”

But the story also indicated that Holmes was furious at Windibank and that he thought the fraud was one of the cruelest tricks ever brought before him. He was clearly upset with the circumstances and thought little of Windibank.

The question as to Holmes’s motivation was troublesome, and the answer would require additional information thought Briggs.

“But why did Watson publish the story and lay the poor woman’s misfortune bare to all of London?”

It was one thing for a newspaper to report on misfortunes suffered because that was news, and there was no relationship between the reporter and the subject. But it was quite another thing for Watson to publish embarrassing circumstances that may ruin a woman’s future prospects mused Briggs.

But what if Watson had thought this through, and realized that the story would cause Miss Sutherland embarrassment if the circumstances were widely known.

Briggs froze as a thought jumped into his head. No, it was more of a conclusion. He drank his glass of porter and wrote a response out to one of his questions.

_What if Watson’s story used false names to protect Miss Sutherland?_

That had to be it.

So, Watson profits from the tale and the poor client must live on in melancholy and uncertainty as to the fate of her fiancé, never knowing that her lover was really her step-father in disguise.

But, if she read “A Case of Identity,” then she may very well have put two and two together, for the similarities would be very obvious to her. Then, having gained the answers she had sought from Holmes, a confrontation with her traitorous mother or step-father (if he managed to show his face to her again) would no doubt have followed, during which she may have asked the question voiced by all victims: “why?”

Briggs was not a gentleman, but he understood that behavior, not clothing and money, are what define a gentleman. His displeasure grew as he considered the probability of Miss Sutherland having to confront her mother and step-father alone, particularly since she had employed men to act as her agents in the matter. Neither Holmes nor Watson acted as gentlemen in failing to disclose the truth, and then for leaving her to manage its discovery of her own accord.  
“Poor girl, she would have been horrified if she had discovered the truth by reading this story,” said Briggs.

“Horrified… but what else?” thought Briggs.

That’s it - her feelings and the aftermath realized Briggs. How did Holmes’s actions impact her! His motivation becomes a mute point because the focus should be on the consequences of his actions. No one will care what motivated his decision after they read about the tragic girl who was wronged by her family and her detective.

That’s it - this is his story.


	3. Chapter 3

The Gasfitters Union Hall was on Great Peters Street, in Westminster, just down from the Gas Light and Coke gasworks building.Briggs dressed in the best his meager wardrobe had to offer and took a cab to the union hall.This was to be the first stop in his investigation, and he was about to do his very best at something he was very good at - lying.

“Good afternoon Sir, my name is William Briggs, and I am a barrister and hope very much that you can assist me,” stated the Badger to a clerk who was sitting behind a large reception desk in the main hall foyer.The entrance was grand, and the desk was grand, but the clerk manning his station was merely a four-shilling-a-day man and such men are usually interested in that odd extra coin that may come their way.

 “Yes Sir, how can I be of assistance?” replied the clerk as he stamped a large stack of notices, one by one.

 “This may strike you as an odd question, but I assure you that it has a direct connection to my business at hand:do you read the detective stories about Mr. Sherlock Holmes?”Briggs leaned forward and placed his arm on the top of the desk, which also doubled as a counter.

 “As a matter of fact, I do,” replied the clerk - BANG his stamp came down on another notice.

 “Are you familiar with the latest tale, ‘A Case of Identity,’ in which a young woman is wronged by her step-father?”

 BANG

 “No, I have not read it as of yet.”

 “Let me impart some circumstances in the tale upon you, and perhaps you can be of assistance?”Briggs related an elementary version of the story.

 “And thus, I am energetically attempting to find Miss Sutherland, to assist her in employing her legal rights against Mr. Windibank in this case.”

 The clerk had paused in his stamping as he took an interest in the tale.

 “However, I suspect that Miss Mary Sutherland is not her real name but is a fiction used to protect her identity, and there lies my predicament.”Briggs could see that the young clerk was caught by the tale, so now he just had to hook him with what was to be gained.

 “So my good man, here I am looking to see if you can tell me the names of any unfortunate widows to which the union still sends ball tickets?”

 The clerk looked away from Briggs and back down at his paperwork.

 “Of course, there will be some compensation for you if you can provide me some positive assistance…” smiled Briggs reassuringly.

“Allow me to contact the gentleman who prepares the arrangements for the yearly ball and see if he can provide some assistance - just one moment,” and the clerk got up from his desk and departed through a large hallway.

 The Badger lit a cigarette and paced the foyer as he waited.A name here, at his first inquiry, would be a find as significant as recovering the Crown Jewels of King John.

 After a short time, the clerk returned with a slip of paper in hand.He met Briggs in front of his desk and handed him the note.

 “Here are the names of six widows whom the union continues to send complimentary tickets.”

 Briggs received the note and smiled to himself.He looked at it and saw the names of six women.

 He looked up at the expectant clerk, reached into his waistcoat pocket and removed a coin and held his hand out to the clerk.The eager clerk glanced around the foyer, and discretely held out his hand in anticipation.Briggs pressed the crown into the clerk’s hand, smiled and winked and turned heel before the young man had an opportunity to either thank or rebuke him for the amount.

 Satisfied with what he obtained from the union, Briggs took a cab to St. Savior’s Church.Experience taught Briggs that in every falsehood, there existed an element of truth, and he was banking on that axiom as well as the lazy writing of Dr. Watson, to reveal what parts of the “Case of identity” were factual. 

 Briggs realized that matching the bride of a failed wedding with a name off of his Gasfitter’s list gives him the girl, but without a match, his investigation is back to step one.And, it could also mean that Watson invented either the ball, and-or the church Sutherland was to be married.It would make his job all the more difficult going forward.

***

 It was now early evening, and the pubs had changed their fare from sausages and pies to roasts, stews, and mutton.William Briggs was in excellent spirits and decided to treat himself by dining and drinking in a pub other than the Sword and Sheath.His inquiry at the church met with brilliant results as he had the name of a young lady who was left standing at the alter less than a year ago, and her family name was on the list provided by the union. 

 He would celebrate till late in the evening.A man starved for a victory will celebrate the rising of the sun, and Briggs had not tasted victory is a great while.

 Briggs awoke at half-past-headache, having celebrated his good fortune a little too aggressively.He poured the basin water over his head and chastised himself regarding his condition.Briggs needed to remain in control and to concentrate on his story.He cannot continue down the path he has been on the past several years, as that path is well-worn and circular.

 Today was an important day, for today he would call upon Miss Mary Sutherland, who was actually named Miss Rosamund Henderson, and would ask her how she felt about being “left at the altar” by Mr. Sherlock Holmes.

 It was late afternoon when Briggs saw the young woman walking down the street towards him, then up the steps and into the home across from where he was smoking.He had been stationed there for several hours, just waiting for Miss Henderson to return home from work.He would wait for another 30 to 40 minutes before he knocked on the door; just enough time for her to make tea or start to relax after her day’s toils. 

 His knock was brief and authoritarian in manner.He took a deep breath.This interview was critical, and he would have to play his part correctly, or he would be shown the door.

 “Yes, may I help you,” said the same young woman he had watched walk home.

 Briggs removed his hat, gave the young woman a slight bow and put on his most sincere countenance.

 “Good evening Miss, my name is William Briggs, and I hope to have a moment of your time, and that you may be willing to assist me with a critical problem.”

 She stood still, looked at him, and remained quiet.Briggs noticed that she was an attractive woman, but did not look as described in Watson’s story.Her face was of a full or round shape, but her cheeks had hollowed and given rise to her cheekbones.Her complexion was fair, but begged for more sleep and screamed of restlessness.She wore simple, but lovely clothes, as a woman with some means may wear. 

 It was just a moment, but Briggs felt a shudder of panic in the silence.Her look was now that of one who distrusted, who despised, and who was about to shut the door.

 “Sir, I really have no…”

 “Miss Henderson,” said Briggs, interrupting the young woman.

 She stopped mid-sentence and became just a bit wide-eyed with surprise at hearing a stranger address her by name.She reflexively reached for the door and gaining hold of the handle, drew it slightly closed, as if preparing to close it and flee into the confines of her home.

 “How do you know my name - who are you, Sir?”

 “Please, please Miss Henderson, I am in a terrible predicament and am considering hiring Sherlock Holmes and would simply like to discuss your experience with him.”

 The mention of Sherlock Holmes coupled with Briggs earnest plea for assistance seemed to have a positive effect on Miss Henderson, as she paused, then stepped back and invited Briggs into the home.He bowed his head slightly, then walked into the house, inwardly smiling.

 Miss Henderson served them tea, during which the discussion began in earnest.

 “How do you know who I am and how did you find me?”

 “Miss, I read about you in Dr. Watson’s story ‘A Case of Identity’ and then utilized some resource that I have at my disposal to uncover your real name and residence.I assure you, I have not spoken to Mr. Holmes or Dr. Watson, so they did not betray your confidence to me.”

 Miss Henderson sipped her tea and considered what Mr. Briggs had to say.

 “Miss Henderson, have you read Dr. Watson’s story?”

 “Yes, I have.”

 “Clearly, he fictionalized some of the information - your identity to start - but are the other circumstances true?Did your step-father portray your romantic interest?”

 Slowly setting down her teacup, the young woman folded her hands in her lap and seemed to be gathering her thoughts, or preparing her words.

 “Yes that is true, my step-father and my mother acted as portrayed in the story.”

 “Did Mr. Holmes ever give you a final explanation as to what he discovered about the circumstances?”

 “No Sir, he did not.”

 Distinctly uncomfortable, she looked at her hands as she smoothed her dress down her lap. 

 “The first I heard of the circumstances were when I read the story and despite Dr. Watson’s fictions and disguises, quickly divined that it was my story he was telling, and I was shocked at the conclusion.”

 She paused a moment and removing a handkerchief from her sleeve, dabbed at her eyes.

 Briggs remained quiet for a moment.Here was where he needed to dig up the bones and get to what will be the headline in his story.

 “I read the story and was deeply troubled by the detective’s actions.I am trying to evaluate whether or not to hire this man to handle a delicate situation, but I really need to hear your thoughts.

 Miss Henderson, you contracted Mr. Holmes to find your fiancé, which he accomplished, yet he decided not to tell you the truth of his findings - what are your thoughts on his decision?Your feelings on the matter?”

 The young woman sat taller and seemed to gather herself.It was an emotional recount, yet she was handling herself with aplomb.Perhaps he was the first person she had discussed this with since the day of her wedding. 

 “I felt betrayed… betrayed by my family and betrayed by those I employed to help me.”


	4. Chapter 4

It took Briggs a week to write his story.For the first time in a long while, he took great care in his work and stayed sober until it was done.He knew that he would have a single opportunity to convince an editor to publish it, and then to strike a deal to bring him on staff.The tale was already out there, as told by Dr. Watson, so this had to grab the attention of Londoners.It had to be sound, it had to be sympathetic, and it had to be shocking. 

He took his work to his former editor at _The Times_ , who was also the man who fired Briggs - twice.But sensational revelations and sales will trump bad feelings, and Mr. Stanley Lambert was not halfway through Briggs’s article when he put it down and demanded to know if it was true.

Briggs assured him it was indeed.

***

 It was before dawn, and wagons slowly made their way through narrow streets and wide boulevards with stacks of tied newspapers which were summarily thrown off at various street stands and shops.Newsboys ran down the streets carrying their stacks of newspapers from a dozen different publishers.They would stand on corners and hawk the news all over the city; but, although their actions were similar, the headlines that the young barkers shouted out to potential buyers were not the same.Today, the boys selling _The Times_ had a shocking headline to call out.It was one that grabbed the attention of passers-by and resulted in newspapers being snapped up citywide.

A barrister who worked in the Temple section of the old city sat at his large desk and read the story about Miss Mary Henderson, unknowingly making audible sounds of disdain and surprise as he read.

_The name of the young woman will be kept a secret to save her any further embarrassment or damage to her public reputation so we will refer to her as Dr. Watson had in his tale “A Case of Identity.”_

 

A doctor read the story out loud as a group of nurses stood around him in shocked silence.

  _… and as a result, Miss Sutherland was betrayed by not only her own mother and step-father but by the very men whom she employed to help her._

 

Two salesgirls in a dress shop allowed a customer to wait as they read the story with mouths agape.

  _…Miss Sutherland’s eyes welled with tears as she gave her account of the cruel trick and subsequent betrayal that befell her._

 

The solicitor riding the top of the omnibus read the final paragraphs with disgust as the tailor peeked over his shoulder also reading the article with interest.

  _…and thus, did Holmes and Watson take this poor woman’s tale of woe, having failed her in every legal and ethical manner, and turned it into a vehicle of the own money-making designs.The self-styled author, Watson, added the victim’s tale to his catalog in another attempt to gain wealth at the expense of another victim._

 

Inspector Gregory Lestrade read the article headline and then reread it.He snapped the paper closed and yelled for the sergeant to bring him some tea.He put his feet up on his desk, snapped the paper open again, and smiled as he started to read the article.

**Sherlock Holmes - The Great Betrayer!**

Money, Celebrity and Dr. Watson’s Growing Practice

 

***

 _The Times_ lay upon the small kitchen table, folded-in-half and ignored, as Mrs. Hudson frantically scrubbed the stove.She was upset and always found cleaning an effective outlet for unwelcome emotions.She had taken Mr. Holmes tea at mid-morning.He was not one for exhibitions of emotion, but she found his nonchalance unsettling in light of what was printed in the paper.He was involved in one of his chemistry experiments and simply said “good morning” and continued with his work.Mrs. Hudson left the tea tray on his side table and noticed the discarded newspaper next to his chair.She glanced back at Mr. Holmes before she left the room:his demeanor was inscrutable.

***

It was much later in the afternoon when Dr. John Watson came home from his office.  Word got to him very early in the day about the article, so he sent a boy to buy him a copy to see for himself.  He found it greatly disturbing and chastised himself for publishing the “A Case of Identity” when he felt so conflicted about their actions.

He had urged Sherlock to tell Miss Henderson the truth, but his friend had waxed philosophical about it, ignoring any potential damage secrecy may impart to the victim.But he was as much to blame as Sherlock because his instincts told him to go and tell the young woman the truth, but he chose to ignore them - even as he composed his story.And now the truth comes out, and they look like opportunists, abandoning a young woman in need to make money by publishing her story.

“John…John, I was thinking we might go - what is it?” Mary Watson changed her thought mid-sentence as she walked into the foyer and saw the look on his face.

The Doctor hung his bowler, handed the newspaper to Mary, pointed to the headline and walked into the parlor to pour himself a scotch.Mary looked down at the newspaper headline and put her hand to her mouth. 

***

Not far from the home of John and Mary Watson, Mr. William Briggs was having drinks with Mr. Lambert and toasting their success.The morning edition had sold out city-wide.Lambert had not yet offered Briggs a position but guaranteed him the front page on a follow-up story if he could get interviews or statements from Holmes or Watson.After that, they would talk. 

Briggs was enjoying his triumph, the quality liquor he was drinking, and the meal he was eating (courtesy of an old nemesis).Tomorrow, he would approach Holmes and Watson for statements on the matter.No one in the press had been this openly critical of the great detective, and it would bring Briggs both notoriety and criticism.Perfect - as the new question at hand was can Briggs find more such stories and be the man who breaks Sherlock Holmes.


End file.
